


Last Night Good Night

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale accidentally resurrects a cow it's great, Caretaking, Community: Do It With Style Events, F/F, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Frostbite, Getting Together, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Kissing, Other, Protective Crowley, Rescue, doesn't make anyone think she's a witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28938234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: Aziraphale's been assigned to Yorkshire, to restore a little faith after that awkward Pendle Hill incident. Things are fine -- it's quiet enough, and although Crowley has a house nearby, she certainly doesn't think about her sworn enemy a whole, whole lot. That would be unseemly, and she has plenty to keep her busy!So it goes, until she's accused of being a witch by locals, and everything goes rather pear-shaped. Crowley's there for a midnight rescue, at least -- and then, of course, for giving Aziraphale a place to rest, and heal. And possibly, finally, do something about her feelings.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	Last Night Good Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray, it's here! This story started with a gorgeous drawing from Realafah, and now there's this! Our socials will be linked in the end-notes.
> 
> CW: foot and hand injuries, temporary drowning (but it's Aziraphale, so she's not going to die, just be very, very uncomfortable)

Aziraphale pulled on an old coat, and ventured out into the wind and the cold, the sun barely peeking over the fells. This time of year it hardly got up into the sky, and quickly set, so that by early afternoon her little cottage was once again swathed in shadow. Some of that was the fells, more of it was the sun, and she thought the analemma of said sun was the worst trick God ever pulled. Who wanted _less_ light in the coldest part of the year?

Morning bitching done, she went out into the muddy yard and fed the chickens and let them out and cared for her horse and said hello to the pig and fed  _her_ whatever food scraps she'd been able to get up, helped along with a considerable miracle. 

With the animals taken care of, Aziraphale stood and stretched a little, breathing in the bitter air. Winter in Yorkshire wasn't for the weak, and she was beginning to fear she was weak. Well, citified at least, although with the knack for underfloor heating still lost, it wasn't like she'd be  _much_ warmer tucked up in a house in London or Eburacum at the moment. Wait, no – they were calling it York these days.

She shook herself, and tidied a few things. Heaven had sent her to the fells, so to the fells she had gone, to work a little angelic influence. The whole thing with Pendle Hill had been...awkward...and it was decided that a little real Godliness should be spread. And it was beautiful here, in a spare and windswept way, the sun beginning to stripe the wild fells. In spring it would be sweet, she reminded herself. She just had to get through the scouring winter, and perhaps it wouldn't rain today, and that was one day closer to Easter and spring and warmth again.

Aziraphale was pretty strictly Apollonian, when it came to her  _style_ , one could say, but even this Dionysian wildness was appealing. At least until one's nose turned red and started to run, as hers was doing just then. So, she turned and headed back to her cottage to build up the fire and perhaps make a bit of toast for breakfast. Oh, and just the smallest miracle, for eggs and a bit of bacon, just a  _smidge_ really, to chase back the cold.

She propped up a book to read as she breakfasted, turning the pages by miracle without shame. It was  _certainly_ worth a miracle to keep from smudging them, for all that she was quite a neat eater, and it wasn't at all frivolous, as she had repeatedly been told. The other angels simply didn't understand. 

Aziraphale's day passed quietly, as it usually did. Up here, there wasn't much visiting even in winter, at least not out to her lonely cottage. She saw the locals on market day, and that was quite enough spreading Good and Doing Kind Works for  _her_ . You had to give Yorkshire that, at least – plenty of time to catch up on her reading. At least, until the sun had set below the fells and she was considering warming up a bit of wine she kept around for cozy winter afternoons like this one. Her plans, though, were interrupted by a knock at her door.

“Mistress Fell?” It was one of the boys from the village – Edward, right, that was his name.

“Is it your Mum?” Aziraphale asked, racing through her mental catalogue. Mary was pregnant, and it was going well, but humans were so... _delicate_ in a way. The part where the baby's head was bigger than the mother's hips was a pretty bad design choice, though Aziraphale didn't like to criticise God of course.

“No, Mistress. She's well. It's Elisabeth. She's sick.”

Second-to-eldest girl. Trouble with her lungs since she was little. Aziraphale nodded, and went to the dresser along one wall, where she kept medicinal teas. Well, teas, but they were a decent cover for a miracle or six.

Right, she wasn't just doing this out of the goodness of her heart. Well, she  _was_ , but not officially so. “Have you begun learning your catechism?” she asked awkwardly, trying to think of a decent topic for religious discussion and/or instruction. Edward was  _eight_ . Mostly she fished him out of various bits of muck, gave him a sweetie, and sent him home. He was delightfully human.

“Yes'm,” Edward said. “D'you want to hear?”

“Oh, no, no,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “Quite all right, dear.” The call and response was ever so dull, and that bit about the two Sacraments was...awfully _pointed_. “That's me, then. Did you walk?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Well, we can take Francis, that will speed our way a bit,” Aziraphale decided. The horse would carry them both easily enough, and it was a bit of a hike to the village. Fine on a summer's day, less fine in midwinter as the sun set.

It was full dark when they reached their destination, but no matter; at least Aziraphale had remembered the lantern this time, so she didn't have to make her own light and arouse suspicion. She had been really rather successful at blending in here!

She found Elisabeth labouring to breathe, poor dove, and running a fever. Aziraphale set the girl's mother to boiling a kettle for the tea that certainly wouldn't do any harm and, after checking for any errant siblings, leaned over her, touching her forehead.

Ah. There. There we go, a simple miracle really. Remove the infection, remove the fluid from her lungs. Ease her breathing and fever, poor little mite. Sleep easy. This age, they just bounced back, and she'd be running about inside of a week.

“Oh, she already looks better.” Sarah was a polite, quiet woman. Aziraphale had bought eggs from her once, and that was about it for interactions.

“Er, oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, realising she had perhaps done things a little out of order. “Oh, wonderful, the tea's ready!” She woke Elisabeth, just enough to help her sit up and drain the fragrant cup. All of Aziraphale's medicines tasted wonderful; she saw no reason to add suffering to suffering. Besides, it probably meant that someone at some point had celebrated God's bounty and gifts, or some such thing.

“There we are,” she said softly, and let Elisabeth back down, tucking her in and smoothing her hair. Aziraphale didn't love children, exactly, but she found them most _likeable_ like this – quiet, asleep, well-behaved, had she mentioned _quiet?_ “Poor little duck, she'll feel much better.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Sarah said quietly. “Will you take some bread with you when you go? We made extra.”

They had done no such thing – with four littles, there wasn't any such thing as extra food. Which was why Aziraphale politely demurred. “I couldn't possibly. Now, you give her that tea once a day for a week, and she'll be tip-top!”

“Thank you, Mistress,” Sarah said, and Aziraphale knew there'd be fresh eggs at her doorstep when the chickens started laying again. Well, couldn't stop them – she didn't need anything, of course, but humans liked to pay for things, so there they were. 

After she'd argued Sarah into staying in the warm and seeing herself out and of course Edward didn't need to come along, she was perfectly fine riding the short distance home herself, Aziraphale went out to the barn for the obnoxious chore of getting onto a horse. It was all so much easier when she could wear breeches, but ah well, she'd get by. Better than poor Crowley did.

Oh, Crowley. She'd almost gone a whole day without thinking of Crowley –

Aziraphale was pulled out of her thoughts – and not ungrateful for it – when she noticed the stall next to where Francis had been settled. It held a cow, and not a living one.

“Oh, bugger,” she whispered. Not fair, not fair at _all_ God. This cow was _needed_ , and they bloody well couldn't afford another one. It looked fresh enough at least...

Aziraphale knelt in the stall, touched the cow's leg, and made just the smallest miracle. Heaven wouldn't mind. They were a good family, and deserved better, and Aziraphale was giving it to them. Exactly what she was supposed to do, and she mounted up on Francis and turned towards home, pleased to spend the next few days quietly in her little cottage, with her books and a bottle of not-awful wine. _Her_ reward, for a job well done.

She carefully didn't think about Crowley on the ride home, nor while she cared for Francis and bedded him down. She didn't think about Crowley some more as she miracled up rather a nice supper for herself, and propped a book up to read while she ate. She still didn't think of Crowley until it was late, very late, and she automatically turned to her left upon hearing a soft noise. But...no. Just the wind, like as not.

Aziraphale sighed, looking up from her book. “Bugger,” she said softly, and thought about Crowley. Dashingly beautiful, full of style, fashionable in a way Aziraphale had no interest in. She kept  _up_ . Not like a slow old angel, half-exiled to this wild landscape. Aziraphale's dress was barely out of style here. No wonder Crowley...well.

They hadn't fought. Not exactly. But there had been things not said that ought to have been, maybe by both of them. Definitely by Aziraphale. But fear and...well, all right, just fear had ruled the day, and they had parted stiffly, and now they were pretending they weren't friends. Because they weren't! Sworn enemies, her and Crowley! Sworn enemies who drank until dawn together sometimes but, well,  _everyone_ had to complain to someone who understood once in awhile! And in her case, the person who understood just  _happened_ to be her hereditary enemy, the demon Crowley, who might also kind of be something of a friend?

(Or...oh, but no, that thought was dangerous. Even more dangerous than one hurried, snatched kiss, half-remembered now a century later no don't think about it  _don't_ .)

Aziraphale bent her head over her book. Translating from Greek always did take her attention, at least. Enough.

“That's her. She's the one as did it.”

It wasn't the first time a whisper like that had followed Aziraphale through the market, and it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't a good whisper, but that was often to be expected when doing God's work. She simply straightened her back all the more, and went to find the farmer with the excellent sausages.

“Is it true?” he murmured, as he wrapped her purchase up.

“...is what true?” Aziraphale asked carefully. That kind of question could cover anything from 'Is the King dead?' to 'Did Mistress Alis really catch the vicar snogging a red-headed demon?', to which the answer to the second was, distressingly, usually 'yes'.

“What ye did at John's farm?” The farmer licked his lips. “The...working.”

What an odd name for it. “Er, well, yes, I suppose,” Aziraphale said, a little confused. “Not a problem, really, just part of...part of being a good neighbour!”

The butcher's eyes grew wide. “Mistress, there's being a good neighbour and then, then there's foolin' with things you shouldn't!”

“James, I expected better of you,” she said, and opted for a little bit for her side. “God chooses our time for us. It simply wasn't her time. I just helped her get a little more comfortable.”

“But the cow was _dead_ ,” the butcher said, far too loudly. “You brought it back to life!”

“What?” she asked. “The _cow_? I thought you were talking about the girl?”

“Oh, her,” he said, and people started to gather; they were making a bit of a scene after all. “No, Mistress, that _was_ God's hand, sure as anything the lady said. But the cow had died! Dead as a doornail. And then after your visit, it was alive again!”

A rush of whispers through the crowd, and Aziraphale tried not to grow frightened. Bringing a cow back was good, right?

“Perhaps that was God's hand too,” she said. “It certainly wasn't mine!”

“But the boy saw you touch the cow and say foreign words and raise it to life!” a woman called out, and Aziraphale shut her eyes. Bugger it, she must have been muttering in Greek again, sometimes she forgot herself rather.

“I did no such thing,” she said briskly. “Of course I didn't, I can't bring a _cow_ back to life! You're all being...very silly!” She turned and went to go, but was stopped by a woman larger than she was.

“You did,” she cried out. “The boy saw you, swore on the Bible he did! And I saw you bathing naked by the moonlight last summer, consorting with Satan!”

Aziraphale sighed. “My good woman. I certainly do not consort with Satan. Perhaps you caught me...bathing...but it was nothing more than cleaning my hair.” It had been a lovely warm night, and the lake was so nice and she had missed Crowley. (Oh, she hadn't wanted to think that last part.)

Another woman came over and jabbed Aziraphale in the chest, forcing her back a step and frowning. That had hurt, rather. “Please, let me go. I'll leave, if you like. You need never see me again.”

“Go back to your lover, the devil? You would like that!” the newest woman cried, and Aziraphale pressed her lips together. It was time to be quite firm! 

“Madam, I simply want to go home and pack my things and leave,” she said. “Please, before someone gets _hurt_!”

“You cursed my dog to die,” a man yelled, voice rough.

“That was hardly me,” Aziraphale said waspishly, “when you let him eat everything he comes across.”

Oh, that had been quite stupid. Quite, quite stupid. Now they were angry, and they weren't going to let her go and this was all so  _dumb_ ! What did these people care about heaven, they had enough to deal with here on Earth! They were Christians, more or less, why was she needed  _here_ ?

“Ow!” This when someone shoved her too hard and she fell to her knees, and cried out again when someone else tied her hands behind her back too tightly, with rough strips of leather. “What are you doing?” Aziraphale cried out.

“Sending you back to where you came from,” the man snarled at her. 

“...London?” she asked, genuinely confused for a moment. Perhaps they'd only take her to the town boundary, leave her there with no food or water or anything. They did that, sometimes. Of course, Aziraphale would be all right, but of course, she wasn't nearly that lucky this time.

Someone had been whipping up the townsfolk. Mobs like this didn't just  _form._ Of course everyone knew about those poor women over Pendle Hill way. But that was a whole trial at the assizes court and everything. They had...well, not done it  _properly_ , but it hadn't been this mob justice!

“To _Hell_ , witch!”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Well, that's _quite_ wrong, I'm afraid. Oi!” They were forcing her to her feet, pushing her to walk. She liked to take her time a bit – walk gracefully, keep her posture good, as befitted an angel of the Lord. But the way her arms were tied, the posture was right out, and she practically had to _jog_ at the rate they were shoving her.

She fell to her knees twice as they forced her through the village, crying out only the second time as she fell on gravel and felt her knee split open. This gained her no sympathy; simply hauled to her feet and shoved again.

Aziraphale was gritting her teeth as they arrived at a deep pond. “At least give me a proper trial,” she begged. “The court in Yorkshire will hear all the evidence, let them decide to hang me or no.” And perhaps effect a miraculous escape, while the proceedings were going on. She was good at miraculous escapes when the  _entire village_ wasn't looking on. Well, she wasn't bad at it, anyway.

They stopped, and forced her to her knees again, and Aziraphale couldn't keep quiet any longer. “What are you  _doing_ ?” she cried out. “I only wanted to  _help_ .”

“Shut your mouth,” someone growled at her – John the blacksmith, right. 

“I stitched your leg when you caught it with a scythe,” Aziraphale reminded him. “Mercy, John. Show God's mercy.”

“ _Witch_ ,” he hissed at her, transformed by...whatever it was that made people like this. Aziraphale didn't like to think on it too much. 

She sighed. “Good heavens. What do you mean to do, then?”

“A trial in the old way,” someone called out, and Aziraphale stifled a groan. Really? She'd sink like a rock in what she was wearing. Ugh, and it was dead of winter. “There is no need,” she cried out, one last chance. “Only let me leave, and you need never see me again!”

“It is our duty to return you to Hell,” Thomas said. He was known for his pig-keeping; Aziraphale herself had often enjoyed his bacon. His pay to her, in return for helping his wife through childbirth, and that time she had to do something rather unspeakable to one of the pigs to keep it going.

Aziraphale set her mouth. “So I am to be drowned?”

“Only if you are innocent,” Thomas said, grinning.

“Or wearing layers of heavy wool,” Aziraphale muttered, but she knew when she was bested. She wouldn't die in the pond. Probably. After all, she was an angel – she _could_ be discorporated, but simply having to go a bit without breathing while submersed in freezing water would be fine. Almost certainly.

And then something hit the back of her head, hard, and the world went black.

“Bloody, bloody buggering...” Crowley muttered to herself as she hovered over the pond. It was the middle of the moonless night. The night was moonless because it was snowing heavily, low clouds both covering the moon and ensuring that villagers would stay indoors. So it was convenient, technically, but just then Crowley would have given an awful lot for a warm summer night – and not just because it would ensure she'd find a still-alive angel, not one somehow frozen and discorporated. They weren't immortal, but they could survive an awful lot – assuming their bodies weren't too damaged. Was it cold enough for that? Crowley hoped not.

She hovered and dove, great black wings moving her through the icy air and the  _snow_ why did there have to be  _snow!_ She poked the water with a stick, as deep as she could reach, but nothing. Nor the next time, and the time after that there was merely an offended turtle.

After that though – soft, but resisting. Not mud, not a dead deer probably? Worth finding out, and Crowley dipped in the air, a miracle helping and yes!

Oh, Aziraphale.

Crowley lifted her body carefully and flew over to the bank, the sere grass covered in a thin snow, and she mantled her wings over them, whispering a werelight into being to see what she had to work with.

She was so  _cold_ in Crowley's arms – now her lap, for Crowley needed to hold her, for reasons she didn't care to explain to herself, least of all anyone else. She rested Aziraphale's head against one shoulder and pressed fingers to her neck, just to see...the angel did so like a pulse. She was good at blending in that way.

(And very bad at blending in other ways, of  _course_ she was drowned as a witch. Foolish, foolish, silly, caring, dumb angel.) 

No pulse, but a little warmth, a little life still. No breath, but Aziraphale was  _there_ , it was clear, Crowley could always feel where she was, and in that moment she was still in Crowley's arms. Which meant a little rest in a warm spot, perhaps, was all that was needed.

Crowley frowned at how awkward she was – oh, of course, beasts, they had tied her hands. She touched the strips of rawhide to release the frozen knots, had the common sense to gather them up so they wouldn't be found in the field come the snowmelt, and took to the skies, flying as fast as she could through the icy air, bound for her own warm little home. It wasn't much, but it was far enough away that no one knew she lived there, or if they did they didn't care to bother the fine lady in her house, and that was good enough for Crowley.

She landed them soft as the falling snow, and the door opened with a thought as she carried Aziraphale into the (relative) warmth. A thought lit the great fireplace, and another chased the chill from the room as Crowley settled her compatriot on a bench by the fire.

Hmph, that wouldn't do. Crowley frowned, snapped her fingers, and the bench transformed into a bed, curtains drawn on three sides to better capture the heat of the fire. Aziraphale still lay there, far too still and pale, and Crowley got to work. She was still alive, but that wasn't the same thing as well at  _all_ .

They had never healed one another, in all their adventures together. To be fair, there really hadn't been any need – a small cut or bruise here or there, and once Crowley had twisted her ankle when dancing a little too enthusiastically; things they could heal themselves easily. There was no telling what might happen when a demon healed an angel, and Crowley wasn't willing to experiment with  _this_ angel. She'd lose the best adversary she could ask for!

(And friend. And...but best not think of that, not right now.)

So she didn't quite dare heal Aziraphale, but she could certainly make her more comfortable. First was getting her out of her clothes, which had gone stiff and crackled with ice, frozen in the cold winter air. Crowley frowned at the rough homespun – this would  _never_ do. No sense in cleaning and drying these old things; she knew what Aziraphale liked.

She got Aziraphale bared down to her skin and rubbed her dry the human way, hoping to encourage blood to start flowing, to chase away the awful white of her skin. Her hands and feet...didn't bear thinking about. At least Crowley could do something about the raw weals on her wrists from that awful rawhide. A salve, warmed at a touch, and soft linen bandages ensured that her skin would heal, assuming...

No, no good thinking like that. Better to make sure she was dry, starting to warm. Better to make sure her hair was dried to clean, soft curls, short-cropped the way she liked them. Best to dress her in a warm woollen shift and heavy socks and leggings, better to put a cap over those shining curls and tuck her under heavy down quilts. Crowley rested a hand on her cheek – merely to see if her skin was warming! Nothing more! – and settled down to wait. Nothing really do to but that. Wait, and maybe think about the things she wanted to say to Aziraphale when she woke.

It was after dawn when she began to stir. Not that it was bright out – it was still England in winter, so it wasn't so much that the sun rose but the dark became...less dark. About mid-morning, Crowley guessed, the winter sun just clearing the horizon.

“Hoy,” she said softly when Aziraphale started to move. “Easy, angel. You've been through a bit.”

Aziraphale moaned, hardly louder than a breath, but Crowley heard her and moved her chair closer so she could wrap her hand around Aziraphale's fingers, now red and swollen. Better that than black with frostbite, at least. “Shhh, you're safe. I know it hurts. That's good, I promise.”

Aziraphale licked her lips. “Crowley?” she whispered.

“Who else would pull you out of a pond, you numpty?” Crowley asked, touching her thumb to Aziraphale's knuckles, just touching, nothing more. “Easy, easy. You, uh. Drowned?”

Aziraphale groaned, and coughed, turning on her side and making an awful hacking sound, but it cleared her lungs. “You don't say,” she said weakly, and finally opened her eyes. “Hullo, Crowley. It's good to see you,” she said, and smiled. Well, sort of.

“You too,” Crowley said, and smiled...kind of a lot. She had taken off her dark glasses and regretted that slightly; maybe Aziraphale would still be bad at reading her expressions? Perhaps? “You were pretty frozen when I found you.”

Aziraphale coughed again and started to push herself upright, but oh, oh, her angel. Whatever strength she'd had had gone to warming her body and she fell back onto the bed with a groan.

“Amazing,” Crowley said. “You are _actually_ useless. Angel, _ask_ me when you want something.” It was nothing to pile up bolsters and pillows and ease Aziraphale into sitting a little more upright. And if it meant Crowley got to get her arms around that soft, warm body that she...loved. She loved it. She loved Aziraphale. Fine; an admission to herself wouldn't hurt anything. She just had to _keep_ it to herself. You know, forever.

Which was about how long she'd remember wrapping her arms around Aziraphale, lifting the soft weight of her, one hand on her neck to keep it safe, the other splayed across her back. Easing her up, hugging her for a moment,  _holding_ her. It left Crowley breathless, so much so that she didn't pay attention and as she pulled away, her hand curved around Aziraphale's cheek, just for a moment.

Aziraphale smiled at her, though. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For...everything.”

Crowley shrugged. “Don't, actually. You hungry?”

“A bit,” Aziraphale admitted, and lifted one of her hands to lie atop the quilt. She frowned at it – at the bandages on her wrists, her fingers fat and swollen, and she tried to curl her hand into holding something, and couldn't stop a little cry of pain. “Oh, bloody _hell_.”

Crowley smiled. “Should be my line.  _Lie there_ , all right? Rest. Whatever that body of yours needs.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I can't even heal myself yet. I'm sorry.”

Crowley shrugged, and tucked Aziraphale's arm under the covers. She didn't like to look at the bandages, and it was warmer this way. A snap of the fingers and she had a steaming bowl of soup, creamy and warm and fragrant. Easy to feed to Aziraphale a spoonful at a time until the bowl was empty and her eyes were fluttering closed.

“Sleep,” Crowley advised. “You're, um. Safe here. Promise.”

“Well I knew _that_ ,” Aziraphale sniped one more time, before her breathing deepened, and she tumbled into a healing sleep.

Crowley considered having a breakdown over the fact that Aziraphale knew she was safe in the presence of a demon, and shelved it for sometime in, oh, 2022 might be all right.

Maybe she ought to make it 2122, just to be on the safe side.

In lieu of losing her mind because her angel was safe, Crowley made sure she was tucked in warmly. She ought to check Aziraphale's feet and make sure they were all right, but if they were anything like her hands, they would...heal. Probably. Crowley opted instead to cushion them on soft pillows, still under the heavy blankets. She could bandage Aziraphale's hands and feet later, if they needed it; now it was best to let her sleep.

Funny, usually it was Crowley who was the sleeper. It might not even be doing anything; they weren't human, why should they heal just like humans, after all? But it was comforting, so Crowley wasn't going to bicker. Instead she poured herself a glass of wine, took up her embroidery, and sat vigil all that day, waiting for Aziraphale to wake.

(Or...no. No, she would live, that was assured. This was a sickbed vigil only, not a deathbed. Crowley set her jaw, and worked the fine blackwork stitches, and drank her wine, and waited for Aziraphale to wake again, that was all.)

Fire. It felt like she was burning, her hands and feet were  _burning_ , and she moaned and moved and bit back a scream.

“Shhh, shh.” Oh, soft hands on her shoulders, and she moaned, confused and hurting. Why was she hurting so?

“Angel, wake up, you're safe.”

“Fire,” she rasped. “I'm burned, I'm dying...”

“Ice, rather,” came the sharp answer, and that woke her better than the soft words, or even, oh, the hand moving through her curls, petting her. “You were nearly frozen. Actually, I think you were, when I pulled you out of that pond and flew you here.”

Aziraphale moaned, and coughed, and remembered. And found a spark of energy to dam the agony in her hands and feet, hold the worst of the pain at bay, and open her eyes. “Crowley...”

Crowley smiled at her. “There, you ninny. Better?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Will you help me sit up, please?” She'd slumped down in her dreams, and her neck ached. And Crowley's arms around her felt...amazing. Beyond amazing. Oh, to be held like this...

She savoured her treat for a moment. A rather long moment; Crowley was really holding her for quite awhile. Well, catch  _her_ complaining.

“Is there more soup?” she asked. It had been quite good, really.

“'Course there is,” Crowley said easily. “You all right to feed yourself?”

Aziraphale freed one of her hands from under the bedclothes, and winced. Still swollen and red, the scrapes on her palms unmissable now, to say nothing of the bandages on her wrists. “I don't think so.”

Crowley made a soft, ugly sound. “Food first,” she said, still brisk, even as her voice wobbled. “Then we'll look at your hands and feet. Bandage 'em up too, if they need it.”

“And my knee,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I fell and...”

“We'll take care of it,” Crowley said quickly. “Eat first. You like eating. Eating's good for you.”

Aziraphale couldn't stop a smile at her companion's babbling. The soup was hearty and good, and Crowley was a surprisingly good nurse for a louche demon of Satan who was her sworn enemy. She was gentle and helped Aziraphale eat, and there was another round of being held as Crowley resettled her and drew back the heavy quilts.

Aziraphale was quiet, watching her body be revealed. It was a comfortable old corporation, nicely chubby, she thought. Strong – normally. Now soft and mostly still, as all her energy went to holding back the pain as the nerves in her hands and feet came back to life. Crowley eased off socks and leggings, and they winced together.

The cut on her knee had scabbed over at least, but her feet were swollen, almost grotesque, bright red. Her hands weren't much better, and Crowley's mouth made a thin line as she snapped her fingers and more salve and silk bandages appeared.

“Really my dear. _Silk_?” Aziraphale asked, bravely trying to joke as Crowley went to work on her.

“Would you really be content with linen? I know you, angel,” Crowley said, heating the salve to almost melting with a breath, and beginning to smear it onto Aziraphale's feet. She worked quickly, with a light touch that ought not have surprised Aziraphale. Her slender, clever fingers quickly bandaged Aziraphale's feet from her calves to the tips of her toes, layer after layer of soft silk. She worked on Aziraphale's hands just as quickly, red and swollen too, Aziraphale unable even to bend her fingers. Here the bandages swathed from forearm to fingertips, not letting a bit of skin go uncovered and act as a vector for pain, or infection.

Aziraphale's lips were colourless when Crowley stopped, and they were both tense with fear and...whatever else was between them. For there was something between them; Aziraphale would have to be a fool not to feel it. She was an  _angel_ , of course she felt love. Even if she couldn't, it was obvious in the way Crowley moved and spoke, the tenderness of her care. Aziraphale missed a lot about humans – they were so complex, with little rituals that kept changing! But she didn't miss anything about Crowley.

But there. Whatever was between them, it wouldn't see light of day. She would repress it and Crowley would drink it away, and all would go back to normal. Aziraphale would heal, or would heal herself, and go on her way, and maybe it could be a few centuries again before they saw each other.

(They used to do that – go whole hundreds of years. Now they could hardly go a year. A development not worth thinking too hard on.)

She closed her eyes and lay back while Crowley covered her with blankets again. Silly as the bandages were, her feet bore the weight of it better this time. She even curled onto her side, her hands protected against her chest.

“Oh, angel.” Fond, warm, gentle. Crowley must think her asleep. She was close enough. But not so asleep she didn't feel it as Crowley once again shifted pillows around. Held her, lingered, lowered her again onto softness, and packed more pillows around her so she might not move in dreams. And – oh. Touched her hair, stroked it. “Poor angel,” whispered almost too soft to hear. “My poor angel. It's all right. No one will hurt you here. No one knows we're here, even.” A long quiet, and then just as Aziraphale truly fell asleep, a touch to her temple. 

A kiss.

Crowley didn't sleep that night. How  _could_ she? Aziraphale might need her. Aziraphale might not need her, but she wanted to be there just the same. And she just wanted to...watch. Was that creepy? It was probably creepy. And not the good demon kind of creepy, like actual gross creepy. Aziraphale deserved some privacy, and Crowley wasn't  _that_ kind of demon, so she made herself get up and tend the fire that didn't need tending, and tidy a few things that didn't actually need tidying, all while her heart and ears and whole self were attuned to the angel in the bed. If Aziraphale so much as  _breathed_ differently, Crowley would hear it.

She settled by the fire, on the side of the bed with a drawn curtain so she might not see Aziraphale. But Crowley couldn't turn her mind away from her stupid angel. Who healed a  _cow_ ? Aziraphale did. And who got drowned for doing so?  _Definitely Aziraphale_ . What a terrible angel.

Crowley loved her so much she thought sometimes her heart might burst from it.

It was a quiet night at least. The snow of the horrible night before had ended and the wind was even quieted, the world frozen and still as Crowley sat and fed the fire and let the hours trickle away until the next time Aziraphale needed her. When the sun rose she started to move around the house quietly, planning for the next few days. Obviously miracles could take care of food and drink, but it would be some time before Aziraphale could do much for herself, and it wouldn't do to let her get bored. So Crowley set up a particularly soft chair by a window – not that there was much of a landscape here, but it would do for light – and of course an ottoman, to keep her poor feet cushioned. Thinking Aziraphale might want some proper meals at some point, she manifested a rather nice dining table, and two chairs. Silver candlesticks – with gold snakes twisting up them, she wasn't going to  _decorate_ to make Aziraphale happy – and long white tapers. Crowley was just deciding if a little pot of greenery would cheer the place up when she heard Aziraphale stir.

She didn't actually magic her way into the front room, but she didn't...not run either, her wings instinctively appearing, every nerve alight and it having to get out  _somehow_ .

She found Aziraphale with eyes already open, smiling. She looked diminished in the bed, hardly a lump under the covers, but she was awake and alive, some of the old sparkle back in her already. Crowley watched her start to push herself upright, and fall back, crying out at the pressure on her hands.

“I am going to _tie you down_ ,” Crowley threatened, wings mantling behind her as she stalked across the room. “Aziraphale, you must be still.”

Aziraphale smiled at her, a little pale, but with definite pink in her cheeks. Good. “I do apologise, but I don't want to trouble you...”

Crowley made some grumpy noises for the look of the thing, and went through the usual motions of settling Aziraphale for the day, upright and propped against pillows. The room was warm, so she was permitted to only be under the blankets to the waist, her bandaged hands resting on her lap. She couldn't say that Aziraphale wasn't trouble, for she was, but it was the kind of trouble Crowley wanted in her life. The kind of trouble that she _liked._ She liked to do for Aziraphale – there, she'd thought it. 

Aziraphale smiled at her, and raised one hand, touching Crowley's wing, too softly to cause pain. “My dearest. What a picture you are.”

“Well, yes, I _do_ groom my wings once in awhile,” Crowley said. “Will you be still if I feed you?”

Aziraphale's smile grew, and Crowley's heart definitely did a horrible thing. “I might. I'm hungry, what do you have?”

Good Satan. This burst of energy called for eggs and bacon and toast, Crowley feeding Aziraphale each bite until she was full up. She must be feeling better, and able to hold back any pain, but she  _was_ still, at least while Crowley was feeding her.

They sat quietly all that morning, talking of this and that – mostly moaning about their bosses, of course – until it was time for luncheon. The sun had even come out – sort of – and a new adventure was in order.

Aziraphale tried not to tremble as Crowley pulled back the blankets, and slide her arms under Aziraphale's knees and back. It was no trouble to lift her, of course – they were both plenty strong – but oh, to be pressed against her! Crowley was warm, wiry and strong, and Aziraphale put her head on her companion's shoulder without thinking.

“You all right there?” Crowley asked, voice trembling for a moment.

Oh. Oh, this was going to be foolish, but what was she if not foolish? She was an angel, she could sense love, and now that her body was pressed against Crowley's – well, somewhat – it was impossible to ignore. It enveloped her, softened her, eased her better than all the medicine and bandages and food and soft beds in the world could.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm quite well. Help me to sit, please?”

“'course, angel,” Crowley mumbled, and carried her carefully across the small room, easing her past the bed so her feet, still heavily bandaged and, all right, rather painful, didn't bump against anything. She settled Aziraphale in the chair, propped her feet up and rested her hands in her lap, and knelt there, big golden eyes looking up at her. “Is there anything else you want?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and leaned over, and kissed Crowley. Very, very softly, a brushing of lips. If she didn't want this, it would be over the moment she pulled away. 

She did not pull away. Quite the opposite, in fact; she pressed up and into the kiss, one hand coming up to cup Aziraphale's cheek. Not forcing her into place, but a caress, a still point of touch for both of them as they kissed, lips moving, angles changing, finding what worked best for them even as Crowley opened her mouth, her tongue touching Aziraphale's lips and Aziraphale's mouth opening in turn, inviting. A little moan as they kissed over and over, shared breath, and there, there, oh, all that  _love_ .

Crowley fell on her bottom with a thump and a little cry, looking up at Aziraphale. “Do you really...?”

Aziraphale laughed, and even knowing she'd be scolded, she rested one of her hands on Crowley's cheek. At least the bandages were soft against her love's skin. “Yes, yes, oh with all my heart yes. You're my best friend, how can I not love you?”

Crowley closed her eyes and rested her hand over Aziraphale's turned her head and kissed the poor bandaged fingers. “Angel...”

“Of course I love you,” Aziraphale said firmly. “You're you. Oh, my dear girl. Let me hold you...”

Crowley shook her head and turned, pressing her face now into Aziraphale's lap. “A minute, I need a minute...”

“Darling.” Knowing she wouldn't be allowed this much longer, Aziraphale rested her hand atop Crowley's shining curls, just touching, letting her take in the way the world had fallen apart and been rebuilt. Right this time; with the two of them kissing, holding each other, loving openly. They would worry about their sides later. Right now – right now was Crowley moving up to her knees again, and gathering Aziraphale into an embrace.

“Don't think I don't see you moving your hands,” she murmured, even as she kissed under Aziraphale's ear. 

“I know, I'm a very bad angel,” Aziraphale murmured back, and they laughed, and kissed, and kissed again.

“The worst,” Crowley agreed, stroking her face. “I love you, my Aziraphale. Does that make me a bad demon?”

“Truly the worst I've ever met,” Aziraphale confirmed, and they giggled at their awful joke, and Aziraphale pulled her back into an embrace. “I love you, my Crowley. Oh, I do like this little chair – and being out of bed – but will you take me back? I want to hold you properly.”

Crowley laughed and picked Aziraphale up again, holding her close, and they had to stop and kiss like that for a long time too. Aziraphale with her hands still, for they  _had_ started to hurt again. Aziraphale nuzzling her and kissing, and being kissed in return, Crowley's great dark wings coming out again and closing around them, unbelievably soft and warm so that Aziraphale giggled, and turned her head, and nuzzled some feathers too. 

“I love you...” She never wanted to stop saying it.

Crowley just smiled and carried her back to bed, settling her and laying down beside her, arms around her again, holding her so thoroughly that Aziraphale didn't even mind how still she had to be, how she could only kiss, not quite caress, not just yet. That would come in time, and until then, she would get  _quite_ good at chasing down bits of Crowley to kiss and nuzzle, just as her own body was caressed in turn.

It was nightfall before they knew it, both of them giggling as they realised it had grown late, and they were lost in each other.

“Well we don't _have_ to eat after all,” Aziraphale said practically, as Crowley helped her to sit up. She was quite strong enough now that she hardly needed it, but it did make things easier – still no pressure on her hands, as she'd found the hard way.

“Yes you do, angel,” Crowley said, and tapped her nose. “Even if you weren't hurt, you get _cranky_.”

“I do not!” Aziraphale protested.

“Do,” Crowley said, rising and fetching a bottle of wine before she miracled up a lovely roast dinner. No more invalid's soups for _her_ , Aziraphale guessed.

“Do _not_ ,” Aziraphale said, just to get her point across, before Crowley shut her up with a sip of quite a nice red.

It was snowing again, but never mind that. It was winter, of course it snowed. They were snug in their little house for as long as they could linger – until spring, Crowley hoped, but like as not that was asking too much. Until Aziraphale had healed at least, which would come much sooner, thank goodness. Crowley was carefully changing her bandages, and her hands were looking much better – the awful weals on her wrists were healing, and she could curl her fingers up, if she was slow and careful about it. Crowley rubbed in the salve, and smiled when Aziraphale's fingers moved, just a little, against her own hands. “Better?”

“Better,” Aziraphale promised. “And they hurt so much less.”

“Good,” Crowley said and kissed her, before reaching for the first roll of fresh silk and beginning to wrap it over Aziraphale's wrist, hand and fingers, making neat folds to protect her beloved's healing skin. She covered even her fingertips, and set her hand down in her lap, delivered another kiss, and went to work on the other hand. 

Such was their rhythm; to touch and kiss and explore, to talk in bed, rarely not holding one another. For Crowley to tenderly feed her at mealtimes, and accept kisses and little, hesitant, bandaged caresses in return. To sleep together, and wake together and, as of last night, make love together, slow and gentle. To care for one another; Aziraphale's hurts the most obvious, but for Aziraphale to cuddle Crowley and pet her, and remind her she was loved. If not by God – and she didn't even  _want_ that – than by God's own. Aziraphale in particular. She couldn't sense it the way her angel could, so she got told over and over, petted and loved and reminded of this thing between them that had been given voice.

Hands done, Crowley moved to her feet. Still tender and swollen, but Aziraphale could walk a few hesitant steps by herself if she leaned on Crowley, so things were getting better here too. Her knee was healing well, and Crowley thought Aziraphale might be able to move freely about the house in another week or two, even if she couldn't venture much farther. She applied more salve, and more bandages, covering over tender skin. Her doctoring done, she settled Aziraphale's feet on fine silk pillows before moving to kneel astride her thighs, their arms about one another, the better to pass the day in holding, and kissing, and caressing.

“You know you really are dumb, angel,” Crowley murmured, while laying kisses in her silvery curls. “A _cow_?”

“You, hush. You weren't there,” Aziraphale told her.

“I don't have to have been there,” Crowley said. “You brought a cow back to life and thought everything would be all right?”

“It would have been tickety-boo if the cow was a little...fresher...than I'd thought,” Aziraphale prissily told her, in between kissing the column of her throat.

“Tickety-boo,” Crowley muttered.

“You weren't _there_ ,” Aziraphale insisted. “Now undo those laces on your bodice, you know I can't with my fingers just yet...”

Crowley sighed loudly, just to register her protest. “You could use a miracle,” she said, starting to undo her bodice. Aziraphale was still mostly only in a warm shift, her medical status excusing her from clothes, or so Crowley insisted.

“Where's the fun in that?” Aziraphale asked. “And I swear upon everything, Crowley, if you start to argue with me that resurrecting a cow is more fun than miracling my lover naked...”

“Actually that _does_ raise some questions on my part,” Crowley said, and would have continued to say, but there were so many more fun things to do. Besides, they could argue later; plenty of time for that. Or anything else they wanted to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Realafah can be found here on AO3 at archiveofourown.org/users/Realafah/pseuds/Realafah/works, on tumblr at jadenightshade.tumblr.com or on instagram as rea_reylee
> 
> Die Traumerei can be found on tumblr at dietraumerei.tumblr.com


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